Nobody Likes a Litterbug, Sammy
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: Casefic: In the wake of a bizarre drowning, Sam and Dean brave the Mojave Desert, where they discover an oasis that defies nature. Something is making the lake flourish, but has begun to destroy all that threatens its purity. Can the bros gank this thing before they, too, offend it and are dragged to a watery grave?
1. Something New

**I do not own Supernatural. Or Jensen and Jared. Because human possession is wrong. Plus if I don't know how to handle children, I certainly wouldn't know how to handle those two ragamuffins.**

 **There is no defined time frame for this story, so you can pretty much envision the bros any age you like.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

~1~ Something New

Nick Chambers, property manager of Sunvale Resort, drowned in an elevator.

Well, authorities said he hadn't drowned _in_ the elevator – that would be preposterous – but he had drowned and he had been found in the elevator, which was sopping when it dinged and opened its doors to a surprised group of tourists in the foyer. The bellboy had fainted. Everyone else had pulled out their cell phones. Not to call the cops, but to film and snap pictures. They gasped and cried out in horror, repulsed and unable to look away.

Naturally, these details were glazed over, or else omitted altogether, from the newspaper Sam Winchester pinned to the hood of the Impala with one hand, his other preoccupied with a cup of joe. The pages flapped helplessly in the wind. To further thwart his efforts to read the vague article and drink liquid caffiene, his hair blustered into his face, no matter which way he turned. But Sam eventually got the gist of what the article was trying to say and stuffed the paper in through the window of the car. He used his now free hand to pull hair out of his mouth as he watched the highway, leaning against the Impala. He sipped his coffee. The harsh bitterness and burnt aftertaste suggested it had been sitting in the pot for over an hour.

"Please tell me you at _least_ found doughnuts."

Sam turned his head. Dean was shambling over from the motel room door, blinking and squinting as though he hadn't seen the sun in months. His clothes were rumpled, shirt only half tucked into his pants and already sticking to his chest with sweat. The night had spent trying to cope without a working A/C and, by the looks of things, Dean hadn't caught a wink, which meant Sam was to spend the next several hours trapped in the Impala with a pregnant bear.

He winced and smeared sweat from his forehead. "Sorry. There were some bran muffins..."

Dean looked like he'd been told to try compost. "Where's my stuff?" he growled.

"Already packed. We've got a job...I think."

Dean rubbed his face. "Is it somewhere with ice?"

"I should think so. A resort south of here. A man was found in an elevator, his lungs full of water."

"Drowned?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "Looks like it."

"How do we know someone didn't hold him down in a bathtub and then toss him in the elevator to cause a distraction? You know, so they could get away."

He scoffed. "I know what a distraction is, Dean. But it's worth looking into, isn't it? It's been a while. The last time you went this long without shooting something I thought you were ready to take a swing at me."

"I'm _always_ ready to take a swing at you."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean grumbled. "Just gimme the damn keys." He held out his hand. Sam glowered, but the wind continued to bluster his hair into his face, ruining the attempt of intimidation. He sighed and pushed away from the Impala, tossing Dean the keys.

"And we're stopping for doughnuts first."

Sam rolled his eyes.

* * *

Two days of driving brought them within sights of Sunvale, Nevada, but it might as well have been two years. It had taken the brothers' combined willpower to restrain from strangling each other with shoelaces as they endured blistering hot afternoons in a black car, and nights in shady hotels with "broken" air conditioners.

Of all the times for this evil entity to strike, it had to be in the middle of a drought, during the hottest month of the year.

"God dammit."

Dean banged on the radio as it sputtered and frizzed, barely catching the station. Had it not been doing that for several miles, Sam would have thought a demon or spirit had appeared in the back seat.

"Just turn it off," he grumbled, half dozing with his head against the door. He was sprawled over his seat, arm dangling over the backrest, trying to expel as much heat as he could. The windows were only cracked open in efforts to keep the car from getting filled with Mojave dust, and they were doing little to suck out the stuffiness. Triangles of sweat darkened the collar and armpits of his T-shirt, strands of hair plastered to his forehead.

Dean, on the other hand, was crunched over the steering wheel, a line between his brows, trying to fight fire with the fire from his eyes. By his mumbled curses and threats, it wasn't working.

And he continued to hit the radio.

"Stupid, goddamn— _work!_ " He smacked it again. It hissed in return.

"Turn it off, Dean."

 _Bang!_ "Turn your _face_ off!" _Bang!_

"Would you just—!" Sam tried to swat his hand away from the hapless radio, but then bunched his legs up as Dean attempted to punch his crotch.

"Hey!"

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his piehole!"

"It's not _working,_ Dean!"

Dean twiddled with the dials, barely watching the road. "She just needs a little love."

Sam shook his head, teeth gritting together. But as they drove into the town limits, a neon sign caught his eye. "There, a motel." Maybe they had an ice machine that actually worked.

Dean pulled off the main drag. A dust cloud plumed up behind the car. He parked haphazardly and Sam got out, door creaking. He pushed it shut, but then Dean shifted into reverse, wheels spitting up gravel as he pulled back out of the parking stall.

"Dean!" Sam lunged for the door handle, forcing his brother to hit the brakes. "Dude—"

"No way I'm spending another night in a crap room with only crap for company."

Sam made an incredulous noise. "What, you expect to get a suite in some five star joint?"

"Nuh uh." Dean wagged a finger. " _Four_ star. But it has a pool."

"...That's where the _case_ is."

"Exactly."

"FBI don't get manicures and massages at the crime scenes they're supposed to be investigating."

"Who said we're going in as FBI?"

"Um, _you_ did, three hours ago?"

"Well it's not three hours ago anymore, Sammy. Live in the present."

"Then what _are_ we going in as?" asked Sam through his teeth.

Dean smirked. "Not we. Me. I'm going in as a maintenance worker. You're going to the coroners."

"Why me?"

"Because you wanted this case to begin with, and because you used the last of the deodorant yesterday and didn't get more like I asked you."

Sam stared, deadpan. "I really hate you right now."

"Yeah, well I really smell you right now and I really think you should shower before suiting up."

"If I'm going to the coroners, I get the car," said Sam.

"Eh, nope." With that, Dean tore away, leaving his brother coughing in the dust.

* * *

Dean changed his mind on the way to Sunvale. Not about abandoning Sam to take on the tedious task of poking stiffs, but about who he was going to be at the resort.

He stopped at a gas station, trading his sweaty jeans and T-shirt for a suit and tie in the restroom. That left him with about ten minutes to get to the cool interior of Sunvale Resort before he melted like a popsicle.

The resort soon came into view, an oblong, sandy red building eight stories tall, not far from the shores of Lake Sunvale. When he'd heard about the lake, he imagined a mineral pool unable to support life. Instead, it was a massive oasis, trimmed with greenery and beaches. It seemed so out of place here, but welcoming. Perhaps it was the reason the resort decided to plunk itself down here in hell's sauna.

Dean found a shaded stall in the guest parking lot to leave the Impala, making sure he had his health inspector ID and that he had noted the name printed on it. The last thing he needed was to blow the case because he couldn't remember his own alias.

Straightening his tie and putting a strut in his step, Dean made for the front door of the resort. He smirked at the sight of an old, British-style phone booth near the steps. Something else that seemed out of place.

He somehow made it up the sun-baked steps without suffering a heatstroke and entered the resort, smiling at the doorman and feeling instant relief from the blast of air conditioning. His shoes tapped over chestnut and tan-mottled tiles waxed to shine like marble. Pilasters framed patches of burgundy wall displaying priceless pieces of art – or at least, prints of priceless pieces of art. Pots of ferns and fronds gave life to the expensive room. Dean felt like he was emptying his wallet just by standing in it.

He held his smile as he approached the check-in desk. En route he noticed the yellow strips of police tape barring the way to an elevator on his right. Three people ogled the scene, one with a camera, another with a notepad. The third was a woman in a dress barely long enough to be called decent, ebony hair piled on top of her head. A tattoo of a trio of spirals, connected in the centre by their tails, sat just above the rim of her dress, between her shoulder blades. He was studying the back of her neck so diligently, he nearly walked headlong into the front desk.

The man behind it raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Can I help you?"

"I should think so." Dean gave him his best fake smile. "Shaw, Travis Shaw...I don't think you'll find me on the list."

The clerk checked anyway, perhaps to show off the gilt pages of the registry. "There is no Shaw here."

"As I said," Dean stressed, fighting to keep impatience from his voice. How he tired of these peacocks. They were all the same. "You won't find me. This is a surprise inspection." He flashed out his ID. The clerk's eyebrow jerked. "I had been assured I would find accommodations here."

The man's face went so cold and still, one would think he was imitating the alabaster bust sitting in an alcove behind the desk. Dean kept his smile despite the strain it was putting on his cheeks.

"Tell you what, I'm going to wander around. I'll just have my people call your people, alright?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Good. Hey," he said, before he left. The clerk's lips twitched in an effort to show polite interest. "What happened over there?" Dean flicked his head towards the taped-off elevator.

"I was sick that day."

Dean nodded slowly, once. "Right." He looked over to see only the woman remained by the elevator, the two reporters having gotten what they needed and departed. But even she was leaving, heading for a corridor. Dean followed. No doubt if he could work his charms, he would get more information out of her than some old curmudgeon of a clerk.

* * *

Sam was still fuming after a refreshing shower and a trip to a suit rental shop, perhaps because of his brother's bossiness, perhaps because the wavering sidewalks were trying to leach every drop of moisture from his body. When he finally got to the coroners, he was caked in sweat again and his mouth was like carpet. But discipline and practice moulded his face into the confident, slightly arrogant features of a federal agent, yet with the sympathetic veil that often got him the answers of awkward questions.

After answering the usual inquiry as to why an agent such as he would be interested in a drowning, Sam was led to the body of Nick Chambers, property manager of Sunvale Resort.

"So drowning really was the cause of death," he said, scanning the pallid corpse for clues indicating anything more. Just in case.

The coroner nodded. "The autopsy revealed nothing else except for bruises on his arms and legs, like he'd fallen or been struggling."

"But he was found in an elevator."

"Sopping wet."

"You figure he was drowned in a tub and then dragged there?"

"Well, special agent, unless you think the elevator filled with water and then drained before it reached the foyer, that's exactly what I figure." The coroner looked over Sam's shoulder, seeing someone waving at him from the hall. "Excuse me."

Once the man was gone, Sam's EMF metre emerged and began to buzz, but faintly. Even if a spirit was involved with this, possession was not. And it didn't explain the water.

He hoped Dean was having more luck in finding clues – if there were any to find.

* * *

Dean was indeed having more luck. The woman he intended to interrogate was leading him to an open bar, and boy, was he parched.

He followed her around an outdoor pool surrounded by beach chairs and umbrellas, then beneath a maroon awning where it was cool. She had already ordered a mojito by the time Dean slipped onto a bar stool beside her, calling for a beer. As they were both interested, neither said anything for several moments, waiting for their drinks. Dean snacked on peanuts, which somehow tasted better than regular bar peanuts, and when the beverages were placed on coasters before the pair, they both took a sip.

"Yellow tape. Always a good conversation starter," said Dean at last, not looking over but knowing he had the woman's attention. He could hear the smirk in her voice as she spoke.

"Unlike you."

Dean ticked his head to the side to shrug off the jibe. "And yet you answered."

"I take pity on the bottom feeders of the world."

"Don't you at least want my name before you insult me?"

"Don't you at least check for availability before you swing your dick around?"

Dean finally looked at her, then down at her left hand. A very fat diamond was strapped to her finger by a golden band. Oops.

"How presumptuous of you," he countered, taking another sip of beer.

She narrowed her eyes, then sucked her teeth and toyed with the lime in her glass. "Figures. The one stranger who has the balls to talk to me is gay."

"...What? No!" Dean sputtered.

"You should go. My fiancé doesn't like me talking to men in bars."

"But he doesn't mind you wandering around on your own, looking at crime scenes?"

She gave him a heavy-lidded look. "I like a bit of excitement once in a while."

"Funny. So do I." Before he could say more, Dean's cell rang. _Perfect timing as always, Sammy,_ he thought despondently, pulling the device from his pocket. "Excuse me." He stepped away from the bar, phone to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Bad news. No sulphur, EMF ... concrete. If there is witchcraft ... office..."

"Whoa, whoa, buddy, you're breaking up." Dean glanced at his screen. Signal was poor. "What?"

Sam's voice waved with the static. " _Check Nick's office for clues_."

Dean sighed. "Is anything ever simply a ghost or demon anymore?" He glanced at his shoulder and realized the woman at the bar must have overheard him a little, for her face was scrunched in confusion. He smiled and waved to show his jest, then meandered further away.

"What?" asked Sam.

"Nothing."

"Got anything?"

"Oh, I think I'm reeling her in." Dean suddenly remembered the woman's engagement ring and winced.

"Funny. Let me know ... useful."

"Right. Wait, aren't you coming?"

"Going ... library. I want to check ... Get into Nick's office. See if anything nasty is hiding out there. And ... elevator. I'll meet ... the motel."

"Yeah." Miffed, Dean hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He returned to the bar, reaching for his beer.

"Who ya gonna call?" said the woman, smirking.

Dean tried to smile. "Rat infestation at the house."

"Oh, no ghosts or demons?"

"Not this time. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

"You should, after I give it to you."

"Humour me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sophia."

"Travis."

"A pleasure, Travis."

"And where's the lucky man?"

"Off getting a massage or manicure or something. I swear, he's more like a girl than I am, sometimes." Sophia finished off her drink. "Well, it's been nice, Travis."

Dean watched her stand up. "Maybe I'll see you around?"

"I doubt it." With a small smile she walked away, moving her hips like she knew Dean was watching. Which she did.

Dean sighed and finished his beer.

* * *

Nick Chamber's office was neat. Perhaps too neat. Dean had the urge to knock over the wastebasket as he came in, just to break the robotic neatness.

"Alright, Nick, let's find your dirt."

Like in the elevator where the man was found, the EMF metre barely flickered here. No piles of smelly yellow powder could be found. Although Dean had expected as much, he had hoped for otherwise.

He changed his view and began looking for anything else of interest. He rummaged through the desk and closet, felt around the bookshelf, and even checked the potted plants. No hex bags, no indications that anyone would be gunning for this man. Unless the cops took something for evidence, the man was as clean as the office.

The security footage was next in line for investigation. Perhaps the elevator camera would reveal some clues. Dean made sure everything was back in its place before heading for the exit. But then he stopped, staring at something on the floor, by the doorstop.

"Hello..."

He picked up a small, smooth stone. Carved into its mottled grey face was a symbol – three spirals connected by their tails in the middle. It seemed incongruous here, and not just because it was on the floor.

And he'd seen that symbol already today. Sophia's tattoo.

Did that mean something? Could be a coincidence. This could be one of those dinky wish stone things bought at gift shops and street vendors.

Dean shrugged and slipped it into his pocket. He'd worked with vaguer clues. And with a walking talking encyclopedia for a brother, he might even learn what kind of rock it was before sundown.

He dialed Sam. "Hey. Going to the precinct to watch the security footage. Care to join me?"

To his frustration, the signal was still sketchy. "No ... working on some theories here. I've been cross-referencing ... journal, but nothing's really fitting. What about you? Find anything?"

"...Yeah, I think I have." Dean pulled the stone back out of his pocket and snapped a picture, making sure the triple-spiral was in full view. "What do you make of that?"

There was a pause as Sam uploaded the picture. "Huh. I've seen that symbol before."

"Of course you have."

"Shut up." Another pause. Dean could hear the clicking of a keyboard. "There. It's called a triskelion. Commonly ... Celts, but it's much older."

"Okay. So?"

Sam released a breath. "I can work with this. Give ..."

"...Sam...? Dammit." Dean pocketed his cell. Now he knew why there was a phone booth right outside the resort's front door.

* * *

A switch in clothes and demeanour and Dean was a federal agent. That meant he could elbow his way to the fun bits of an investigation – the evidence.

He had the room to himself and so he relaxed in the chair after slipping the disk, copied from the original security cassettes, into the machine and hit play. After watching, he shook his head. These poor cops. No wonder they had let him into the precinct so readily.

The footage showed Nick Chambers leaving and locking his office. He dropped his keys twice doing so. Then he waddled too quickly for the elevator. The film switched to a view inside the car, showing Nick dropping his keys again. He hit the close button and held it as he pressed the ground floor button as well. Nick was using the cop trick. He could go wherever he needed to without the elevator stopping for anybody.

That might have been what sealed his fate.

The elevator began its descent. After a few moments, Nick jumped, staring at the floor. The grainy footage couldn't pick up what had scared him, and then it fritzed out, a sure sign that something supernatural was present. By the time the footage cleared up again, the elevator was opening to the foyer, and Nick was dead. Drowned.

Dean watched the footage again and again. Drowned in an elevator. If he was a cop, oblivious to what was really out there, he would call the footage tampered. Hell, as a hunter he could call the footage tampered. But something in his gut told him otherwise. Perhaps it had something to do with how quickly Nick had drowned. He had only descended five or six stories. People could survive that long without air.

Dean burned a copy onto a blank disk to bring along and left the precinct, sending Sam a text before driving back to the motel where he'd abandoned him earlier. It was easy enough to pick his way into the room Sam had booked, and there he showered, pulled on fresh clothes and relaxed, content to wait for his brother.

* * *

As though he'd been reading Dean's mind, Sam brought food with him. He balanced a large white paper bag, two tall cups with straws and a stack of ancient tomes over the threshold.

"Ah, hello, sweetheart." Dean stood.

"Gee, glad to see you too, honey cakes," said Sam. He rolled his eyes as Dean snatched the bag away.

"Talking to the burger, moron."

"You like it with spinach and artichoke hearts, right?"

Dean looked at him in horror. "You didn't."

Sam just hummed and set the books down on the vanity as the elder Winchester ripped open the wrapping of the burger. He sighed with relief upon finding no spinach or artichokes.

"Good ol' chemical cheese and cow tongue patties." He took a hearty bite. "Whuff you phime?"

"It could be a few things." Sam sat on the bed with his laptop. Countless meals with his brother made him fluent in the language of Dean-talking-with-his-mouth-full. "What little EMF is there definitely suggests some spirit work. But something is dampening its...potency, I guess you can say."

"Never eard ovvat appeming."

"Dude, you're getting crumbs everywhere." Sam tossed him napkins before taping a few keys. "I think we can rule out water wraiths and nymphs. There's no way they could survive this drought, even with man-made systems. And as far as I know, they can't control water to this magnitude. That leaves one thing." Another tap on the enter key, and he turned the laptop around to show Dean a webpage. "Rusalka."

By the look on Dean's face, he was either repulsed or had swallowed his mouthful too soon. He took a sip from his drink. "What the hell's a rusalka?"

"Also known as a vila, it's a type of water spirit. Really rare, especially on this side of the planet. They're like water guardians, in a way. The lore says they're the souls of virgins who had drowned, and they haunt and protect the places they died."

"And they're dangerous?" Dean stuffed his mouth with burger again.

"Some stories say yes, others say no. Ours, I think, is."

"Hmph." Dean chewed properly before swallowing. "What about the triskel-whatsit?"

"Triskelion." Sam grabbed a book from the vanity. "Symbolizes a lot of things. Including water." He flipped to a page he had dog-eared and passed it over. "And rusalki."

Dean studied the drawing of a woman in threadbare clothes, pond water up to her waste. Her hair was long and pale. A pendant with the symbol was around her neck.

"So it's like any spirit? Salt and burn the bones?"

"That would be my guess. Dad has nothing on them in his journal, and the lore doesn't talk about destroying them. Just avoiding. Guys have to be especially cautious."

"Alright. So if this thing is a rusalka, and she's protecting her death place...why is she acting now? I mean, that resort's been there for years."

Sam shrugged. "Who knows. We should look up the local deaths, see if there's any clues there."

"Mm hm. But not until tomorrow."

Sam gave him a look as he chowed down the rest of the burger, but didn't argue. It had been a long, hot day and there was little more to be done for the time being.

* * *

 **I made up Sunvale as well, in case anyone was wondering. Because I could.**

 **And as you might be able to tell, this will be a very simple, cut and dry case. I'm still recovering from a four-year-long fanfic story, so go easy on me! I get to be lazy for a while.**


	2. Another Bites the Dust

~2~ Another Bites the Dust

Dean was sleeping with his mouth open, half his face mushed in a pillow, when the door slammed shut. He woke with a jerk, hand going for the gun under the pillow, but then he sagged upon hearing Sam's voice.

"Dozens of deaths over the past few months in Sunvale, only three related to the resort in some way." Sam hauled a duffle bag out from beneath his bed, dropping it near Dean's feet. The elder brother groaned.

"What time 'zit?"

"Eight thirty."

"Th'n why're you awake?"

Sam glowered. "Why am I getting the impression that I'm doing all the legwork for this case?"

"I _am_ working." Dean sat up dozily, rubbing his face and ruffling his hair. "The sleeping mind is a remarkable problem solver."

"Do you even remember the name of what we're hunting?"

"Course."

Sam looked at him, blinking once, twice. Dean scowled.

"Shut up. Who died and why do we care?"

"Maurice Walker, Juliet Jonsten and Lance Stewart. Maurice died in the resort of a heart attack. Probably not our drowned virgin ghost lady. Juliet was a suicide. Found her fiancé with a maid and couldn't bear the shame. But she jumped from the roof – she doesn't fit the profile either. Then there was Lance. A groundskeeper who'd worked there for sixty years. Fell asleep on his break and didn't wake up."

"...So in other words, you got diddly squat."

Sam paused, then nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Awesome. Then why the hell did you wake me up?"

"I don't know, perhaps so you could come with me to the resort and we can look for more clues? Maybe this isn't a rusalka at all. Maybe it's...something new. Something we haven't faced before."

"Have you called Bobby?"

Sam sighed. "We shouldn't rely on him so much, Dean. The guy's got enough on his plate already. I really think we should try to figure this one out on our own."

"Fair enough. We should ask the locals if there are any legends about the place. That's held merit before."

"Worth a shot."

* * *

Thirty minutes later the Impala pulled into the guest parking lot and released its passengers, doors creaking.

"What's with the phone booth?" said Sam, staring at the British-style booth in question.

Dean followed his gaze. "Cell service is crappy here."

The men were able to blend in with a rabble of vacationers and slip past the front desk, into the heart of the resort. It was a large, oblong pool in a central courtyard, surrounded by shaded areas serving food, drinks or other services.

"Shotty checking over there," said Dean, nodding to the other side of the pool. Sam glanced over, then sighed in exasperation.

"That's where the bar is."

"I know," said Dean, smiling airily.

"It's nine o'clock in the morning!"

"I'm not going to drink! Sheesh!" Dean was staring as though looking for something over there, or someone. Sam couldn't care less what or who.

"Whatever. Meet me back here in an hour."

"Will do." Dean wandered off, and Sam went the other way, listening in on conversations.

He was grateful for the patches of shade given by umbrellas and awnings, for the sun was already high and baking the courtyard. He managed to get his hands on a glass of fresh, iced juice, which he drained within a couple minutes. His focus began to diverge from the case as temperatures rose and he grew hazy. Only a few brave souls were lying on chairs, others were playing in the water, which looked cool and refreshing. Sam stared into its depths, beaded cup still in his hand, a look of light consternation on his face.

"May I take your glass, sir?"

He jolted, half turning. "What? Oh." He smiled and set the glass on a tray held by a serving lady. "Thanks."

She smiled. "Can I get you another?"

"Um, I can get some later..." He faded off as another staff member walked by too quickly, head down, hands covering her face. No one seemed to notice her but Sam.

"Is she okay?"

The waitress turned. A pitying look replaced the smile. "That's Rachel. Her grandfather passed away recently but she insists on working through the grief. To keep herself distracted, you know? It's not working but she won't go home. She said she feels like he's still here."

That piqued Sam's interest. "Who was her grandfather?"

"Mr Stewart. He worked here as a groundskeeper for _ages._ Such a sweet old man."

"Stewart. Lance Stewart?"

She blinked. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"Obits," said Sam with a smile.

She smiled back. "Well, let me know if there's anything else I can help you with." She wandered off, and Sam went the other way, following Rachel to where she had disappeared inside. His long strides caught him up enough to see her disappear into a bathroom, but she was in there for only a few minutes. When she came out, her eyes were puffy but she was otherwise presentable. She stopped cold at the sight of him.

"Oh! You startled me."

"Sorry," he said with a smile. He tilted his head a little. "Are you alright? You look upset."

"It's nothing, really. Just...had a rough week."

His smile turned empathetic, not a difficult feat. "Lose someone?"

"Yeah." Rachel's eyes grew misty again. "Sorry. I'm such a mess."

"Hey, it's okay. Who was it?"

"My grandfather. Stubborn mule wouldn't retire. He loved this place too much. He died here."

"Really? The only reason he kept working here was because he loved the place?"

She grimaced. "Would there be any other reason?"

Sam shrugged. He had to tread carefully here. He knew from experience how easily mourners could clam up when the wrong questions were asked. "Maybe it was sentimentality, or there was someone he liked to be around. Someone he loved."

"Hmph. It wouldn't be me. I always visit him at home."

"Could it have been someone else?"

"He was eighty two! A bit old to be chasing tail."

He smiled awkwardly. "Of course. Sorry, I just get curious sometimes."

"No, no, it's fine. Kind of nice to talk about this with someone I don't know, for some reason. I'm Rachel." She held out her hand, which he accepted.

"Sam. This seems a nice place to work."

"I guess. Pay's not the best, but it's a secure job and there's always a place to hide from the heat." She gestured at their surroundings. "And you look like you needed to."

He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Yeah, I guess I did. Earlier I found a nice cool spot. _Really_ cool, almost freezing, actually. Ever feel that around here?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "...No, I don't think so. Well, unless you stand in front of an A/C."

"I saw the lights flicker earlier too. Does that happen often?"

Now she looked a bit perplexed. "No. Was it in your room? Do you need someone to come take a look?"

Disappointed, Sam merely smiled and shook his head. "Naw, it's alright. Probably nothing." A thought struck him, and he hoped he didn't sound too crazy when he asked, "Did your grandfather like the lake?"

Rachel blinked dumbly for a few moments. "Uh, yeah. My mom said he used to swim a lot in his younger years. Like, before he got married and had her and all that. Then he suddenly stopped."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I don't think Mom knows either. He used to compete, I know that."

"He must have been buried near the water, then."

"He was cremated, actually."

"Oh." He waited a few seconds to see if she would say more, but knew he should shut up before he made her suspicious. "Well...I probably shouldn't keep you any longer. It was nice meeting you."

She smiled. "See you around, Sam."

* * *

The agreed hour passed and Sam had to go looking for Dean. He found him lounging in a massage parlour, face down on a padded table. Miffed but concealing it, Sam ignored the fact his brother was only covered by a single towel and made his way over.

"Hard at work, eh?" he said blandly.

"That you, Sammy? You've got to try this. My masseuse has the hands of a goddess."

Sam opened his mouth to berate him, but then someone spoke from the other side of a screen nearby.

"Travis? Is this the brother you mentioned?"

Dean didn't bother getting up, waving a hand towards her voice. "Yep. Sam, Sophia. Sophia, Sam."

A woman in a white robe appeared from behind the screen. She smiled. "Ah, the workaholic. Travis tells me you need to unwind. He's right – you should have a professional look after you."

Sam smiled and nodded tightly. "Thanks, but no thanks. I actually need to speak with my brother, if you don't mind."

"Suit yourself, governor." Sophia turned, letting her robe slip down off her shoulders prematurely before she disappeared behind the screen again. The only thing Sam noticed was the simple black tattoo between her shoulder blades. He flinched.

"Dean—"

"I know. Thing of beauty, isn't she? Met her yesterday—"

"No, dude, her tattoo!"

Dean scoffed. "A triskelion. Yeah. See? I _am_ working."

"Well have you asked her about it?"

"She says it's just a tattoo—"

"Of course she would say that."

"I haven't given up! Let me work on her a bit. Now get. I get another twenty minutes for free."

Sam sighed but let him be. There was more research to be done and he was to do it alone.

* * *

Bits and pieces of Sunvale Resort's history were scattered all over in the guises of plaques. But rather than playing scavenger hunt and finding them all, he smuggled his laptop in from the Impala and found a cafe not far from where Dean was "unwinding," just in case he came looking for Sam.

He found a table near the far wall so he could keep a view of the rest of the cafe and flipped open his computer. The resort's website had pages of its history all in one convenient location. He skipped past the introduction to the part when the first shovel dug the first hole. He skimmed through it, disappointed when little about the actual site was noted. It had been First Nations territory once, as was everywhere else hundreds of years ago, but when Sam looked up more about it, it had no dirt to it. No ancient curses, anyway. The building set there initially was a storage and managing centre for nearby copper mines, and wasn't converted into the resort it was now until a couple decades later.

What was interesting, however, was the lake.

According to old records, it always flourished after winter, but dried up by the end of summer. Then, only a couple years after the building was finished, it stopped drying up at all. Links to scientific articles were not enlightening. There were theories but no concrete evidence to this geographical phenomenon. After they converted the building into a resort, the lake was viewed as a divine gift and the resort gladly maintained it, with support from the government.

Sam sighed and leaned back in his seat, chewing on a pen. This lake could get its unnatural abilities from a water guardian, such as a rusalka. But that didn't tell him who the spirit was or if it was in fact a spirit.

He slowly leaned forward again, a thought tickling his mind. Opening another window on the browser, he pulled up the local newspaper and reread the obituaries from a few days ago. Lance Stewart was born some twenty years before the building was established. Sam clicked back to the other webpage, finding the first year the lake stopped drying up, which was two years after the mining centre cut the red tape. The obit said Lance had worked as a pen-pusher until the centre became the resort, and then he took up the position of groundskeeper.

So why leave the mining industry just to keep working at the same building?

Sam looked up more of the lake's history, more specifically drownings. There was a total of fifteen over the past six decades. The list was comprised only of dates, but with the power of the internet Sam was able to find the names. And what he found made him perk.

The first person to drown after the building was complete was a woman. The same year the lake stopped drying up.

"Got you, Kara Walter."

* * *

Dean joined him half an hour later, a wrapped creamsicle in either hand and a grin on his face.

"Pick a colour!"

Sam gave him a flat look. "What are you, twelve?"

"Come on, Sammy, these things are delicious. You like orange, right?" Dean held out the one in his left hand.

"Yeah. Sure." Sam reached to take it, only for Dean to yank it away.

"Too bad, you get grape." He dropped the purple creamsicle on the table.

Sam rolled his eyes, ignoring the treat. "Having a good time?"

"Just awesome. I don't know, Sam. Maybe you should let this one slide to the back burner, enjoy yourself for a while. Hell, this might not even be a case!"

"So you think that security footage of Nick Chambers had been tampered with after all?"

Dean shrugged. "Could have been."

"But do you believe it in your gut?"

"...No, not really. I'm just saying there's a chance this was a regular murder."

"When has it _ever_ been a regular murder?"

Dean sighed and unwrapped his ice cream treat. "What have you got?"

Grumbling, Sam recapped everything he'd found out about the resort, the lake, and Kara Walter. "The cherry on top – no remains. Kara's body was never found."

"How do they know she drowned?"

"An eyewitness. A man named Lance Stewart. This police report says she just went under. He couldn't get to her in time."

Dean frowned. "Lance Stewart. Didn't you mention him earlier?"

"Died a week ago after sixty years of working in this building. First with a mining corp, then for the resort as a groundskeeper. With him dies the secrets of Kara's death."

"Awesome," Dean muttered again, but without enthusiasm. "So her bones could be anywhere down there."

"And remember how I mentioned the lake stopped drying up the year she died?"

"Crap. We're back to the rusalka thing?"

Sam nodded grimly. "Unless you found something on Sophia."

"No, nothing. She's a real estate agent selling the houses surrounding the lake. She even has business cards." Dean tossed one on the table in front of him. "She seemed pretty normal. In fact a bit boring."

"Seems weird that she would have a tattoo of a triskelion." Sam shrugged and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "I guess it can't be all that uncommon anyway, as far as tattoos go."

"And the lack of hex bags has been cutting loose the witch theory," said Dean. "So say it is a rusalka. Why would she be attacking people now after sixty years?"

"I don't know. After Kara, subsequent drownings were all normal causes – flipped boats, weak swimmers, that sort of thing. What happened to Nick...pretty suspicious."

"You think? We need to find out more about these rusalki... Now will you call Bobby?"

Sam sighed. "Already did. I looked through all the lore books in the city library yesterday. The few that mentioned rusalki have everything the internet has – which is little. I was hoping Bobby had some older books. He seems to have something about everything. He'll call as soon as he finds something." Sam closed the laptop and slipped it into its bag, standing.

"Mm hm." Dean finished his creamsicle, then eyed the one on the table. "If you're not going to have that, can I—?"

Sam snatched it up. "Not a chance."

"Come on, Sam—"

"Nope."

* * *

They were making their way across the vestibule when they heard the screech. Instantly in battle-mode, the Winchesters made sure their guns were tucked in their waistbands as they rushed out the front door, seeking the danger.

But whatever danger was there, it had passed, leaving a victim behind.

Sam and Dean pushed their way to the front of a crowd already forming around the British-style phone booth near the front steps. The pavement was damp around it, as though someone had watered the walkway. But their eyes were drawn to the woman lying half out of the booth, sodden and limp.

"My God," said Dean. "Sophia."

"Sophia?" said Sam. "As in, triskelion tattoo Sophia?"

Dean nodded numbly, then knelt, rolling her over to feel for a pulse. Around them people were using their phones to call for help, or else take pictures. What else was there to do when there was a body in the vicinity?

"Drowned in a phone booth." Sam shook his head.

"Hey. Look at this." Dean pulled something from Sophia's hand. Then he was forced to tuck it up his sleeve as security finally arrived.

"Back away. Back away, please!"

In the confusion and chaos, Sam and Dean slipped away to their car and made it out of the parking lot.

"What did you find?" Sam demanded. Dean let the object slip out of his sleeve, into his hand.

"Look familiar?"

Sam took it, peering at the smooth pebble with the triskelion etching. "I'll be damned."

"Just like the one I found in Nick's office. So either the pair of them have a taste for tasteless baubles, or..."

"Or, what? The ghost leaves it? Like a warning or signature or something?"

"Ghosts don't leave signatures like this. I think it's more like...like a marking or something. Get this charm, you're marked for death." Dean was silent for a few moments, tapping the steering wheel with one finger. "You think Nick knew? His rock was on the floor of his office. Maybe that's why he was trying to leave the resort in a controlled panic."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. But what does he have to do with this spirit? He wasn't even born when Kara Walter drowned."

"Same with Sophia. I don't know, man, this isn't making any sense to me."

"If we can find out what the spirit wants, maybe we could see who it will attack next. Hopefully Bobby will have more about rusalka for us soon. For now, we should find out more about Nick and Sophia."

"We know Nick was the property manager," said Dean. "And Sophia a realtor. Her fiancé owns a mine somewhere just outside of the city. That's pretty much all she had to say to me."

"Okay. That doesn't explain why the rusalka killed her."

Dean remained silent for a few blocks. "I have to admit, I thought she was in with the sinister side of this."

Sam glanced sideways at him. "Because of the tattoo?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that makes two of us."

"...I hate it when we're wrong."

"I guess all we can do now is speak with the people who survived Nick and Sophia. If they weren't the only threats to the lake, we need to find out who else is. I already got the address of Nick's condo. I figured we'd need it eventually."

"The cops will probably have his computer. I'll grab it and speak with Sophia's fiancé after I drop you off."

"Sounds good."


	3. Body Count

~3~ Body Count

In a few short moments Sam had broken into Nick Chambers' condo. He slipped the lock picks back into his pocket and scanned the room, seeking anything that stood out. Then he began the slower, methodical search of the impeccable flat.

"What kind of a man were you?"

The bookshelf was organized by genre and then alphabetized. He skimmed over the spines, words like innovation, business and self-esteem catching his eye. There were also poetry and mystery novels. The bookends were large marble chess pieces.

Sam moved on. On the wall were a few prints of paintings, created by artists he didn't recognize. They were simple landscapes, the colours normal without anything abstract. So perhaps Nick had been a realistic man, and preferred to see things as they were.

Sam walked past the kitchen, right to the work desk. There were no papers on top, just a potted cactus, a monitor and Newton's cradle. He found documents inside the desk and in the nearby filing cabinet. Grateful for the man's organization, Sam began riffling through, seeking anything related to his job as a property manager.

Dean joined him less than an hour later, laptop under his arm and looking disgruntled. "Cops, I swear."

Sam closed the door after letting him in. "What's up?"

"Sometimes they're as dumb as bricks but they can hit too close to home. They're starting to take these drownings as murders."

"Which they are. I mean how can you not take them as murders?"

"Yeah, but get this. There have been three drownings this morning."

Sam stared. "I'm sorry, three?"

Dean set the laptop on Nick's desk. "As in three musketeers. Three blind mice. Sophia makes four."

"What happened? Where did they drown?"

"The lake."

"...That makes more sense than the elevator and phone booth, Dean."

"Except for the fact that one was wearing a life jacket in the shallows, and two were in a fishing boat, their heads crammed in the livewell."

Sam blinked, trying to banish the image from his head. "Jesus. Okay, so maybe we're looking at this all wrong."

"People swarm to that lake all the time. You think these attacks are random?"

"Possibly. I wouldn't bet on it, though." Sam flipped open Nick's laptop and worked on decrypting it while Dean leaned against the desk, enjoying the cool air the room offered.

For several moments there was only the tapping of keys. Bored, Dean looked around, eyes eventually landing on the Newton's cradle sitting on the desk. He stared at it, then at Sam, then at the cradle again. He pushed off the desk, turning casually. Sam seemed totally engrossed in what he was doing, and so Dean focused on the suspended row of perfect little silver balls, pulling one from its brethren before letting it go. It swung back into place with a soft _clack_ , only for its counterpart on the other end to bounce off, swing back and return the favour.

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack_...

Mischief tugged the corners of his mouth, and he glanced at his brother, to see his head down but eyes up, staring back.

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack_...

"What did you find out from Sophia's fiancé?" said Sam after a while, a bit tight.

"Wasn't at the coroners or the cop shop. But he has a room at the resort, and I have someone keeping a lookout for me."

"Hmph."

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack_...

Nothing was said until Sam cracked into Nick's laptop, which he announced with a soft sound of triumph.

"Start with emails," said Dean, moving to look over his shoulder.

"Already on it. What was the name of Sophia's fiancé?"

"Mm...Josh. Or George. Or Jake. Something. Last name Jenkins."

Sam sought any emails between the two men, and was relieved to see they existed. Finally, some potential headway. He opened them up and scanned through them one by one.

"At least we were right about there being a connection. Looks like Josh Jenkins offered a business proposition to Nick in regards to the lake. Tests showed potential mining grounds near it."

Dean shrugged. "So?"

" _So_ , mines can be devastating to the environment around them. I don't know how the rusalka would have found out about this, but it definitely would have pissed it off."

"Okay, what about Sophia? Did any of those emails even mention her?"

"No." Sam sighed, leaning back in the chair. "And I doubt the three latest vics had anything to do with it either. There must be another pattern."

"Maybe the rusalka just hates people."

"Then there would be a hell of a lot more deaths. Tons of people go to the lake every day. No, we're missing something..."

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack_...

Dean leaned forward until he could see his brother's face. "I know that look. What is it?"

Sam opened his mouth, paused, then said, "It was something Rachel said..."

"Who's Rachel?"

"A woman at the resort. Her grandfather was Lance Stewart. Remember how I said he'd worked at that building since its completion sixty years ago? Rachel said he used to swim when he was young, and then he suddenly stopped."

"...The police report says he saw Kara Walter drown."

"Yep. He'd been around twenty years old at the time. Then he did a complete job change when the mining centre converted into the resort, as if he had to stay working in the area. He refused to retire even though he was in his eighties. It's like he...was bound to that place."

Dean looked thoughtful. "Then he dies, and suddenly people start drowning weirdly."

"Exactly."

"So do we think he knew of the rusalka? Maybe he suppressed it or something?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I guess so."

"We should ask him. Oh wait, he's dead!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Chill pill. Obit said Lance has a surviving sibling."

"Shocker."

"Give me a few moments and I'll find his address."

Dean mumbled and started to pace. "No word from Bobby about how to gank this thing?"

"No. Give him time, Dean."

"Ugh, waiting."

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack_...

Sam closed the laptop. "Alright, let's go."

"We should get tacos," said Dean. Sam stared at him incredulously.

"Seriously? Now?"

"Yeah. I feel like tacos."

Sam sighed, heading for the door. Dean followed, hands splayed to his sides.

"What? I'm a growing boy."

"Oh, you're growing, alright, jelly-Dean." Sam jabbed him in the gut, then scampered away before Dean could poke him back.

* * *

Darren Stewart's house squatted near the shore of the lake, a couple miles from Sunvale Resort. The road stopped a hundred metres before the property began, so Sam and Dean had to trek the rest of the way on foot along the beach, the latter holding a taco in one hand and the rest of his bagged order in his other.

"Come on, Dean. One burrito."

"No can do, Sammy. You know what happens when you eat Mexican food."

Sam snorted, shaking his head as he gazed at the cabin before them, tucked between mounds of orange rock, several yards from the water. It reminded him of a crouched dog, low to the ground and ready to lunge. Its stone chimney was crooked and the roof sagged, and all the windows were veiled with tattered curtains. It looked like it hadn't been painted since it was built, which was probably before the sinking of the _Titanic_. Across a short, rocky beach was a single dock with a single rowboat, but Sam doubted it got used much these days.

They strode up the walkway between a cactus garden – if it could even be called a garden – and ascended the three screeching steps onto the porch. There was no doorbell, so Sam knocked, loudly, as Dean stuffed the last of the taco into his mouth.

Rough coughing and grumblings were heard, and eventually a scrawny, shaking old man answered. For a moment Sam thought it was dearly departed Lance answering the door.

"Whaddaya want?" Darren squinted between the two Winchesters. One of his eyes was red and his clothes looked too large for his weedy frame.

Sam smiled. "Afternoon, sir. We just wanted to ask you a few questions about your brother."

"My brother?" Darren hacked. Pulling a coke bottle from the pocket of his baggy khakis, he spat into it and slipped it back. "Why d'you want to hear about him? Who d'you work for?"

Sam tried not to look repulsed. "We're students, actually, Mr Stewart. Our assignment was to speak with elders of the city and write on it. Your brother came recommended for his hard work at the mining centre, and the resort."

" _Baaah_ , my brother was an old fool. Wasted his life at this God-forsaken lake. And for what? A bad dream. Go away. He's dead and there's nothing more t'be said." Darren went to shut the door, but Sam easily kept it open with one hand.

"Please, sir. We procrastinated on this assignment and were a few days too late to speak with him. It was a miracle when we found out he had a brother." Sam put on his best sympathetic, we-want-to-help-but-you-have-to-help-us-first look. Dewy-eyed, as Dean often put it.

Darren gave him what might have once been an evil eye in return, but his jiggling jowls and ragged suspenders didn't help the image. He coughed again. "Fine. Come on in."

"Thank you, sir." Sam and Dean crossed over the threshold.

The inside looked as neglected as the outside, trapped in an ochre haze and smelling of nutmeg. A ceiling fan fluttered overhead, making more noise than air movement.

"Leave your shoes on. I don't bother keeping this place neat, anymore. Realtors keep coming by, trying t'get me to sell. No one wants to buy a pig-pen." He chortled throatily, heading into a den with a dry bar and a broken TV.

Sam turned to Dean just as he mouthed, ' _Sophia_.' Sam nodded before following the old man.

Darren sat on an armchair that looked older than God and waved at a pair of stools across from him. The Winchesters sat down. Sam's stool collapsed instantly, sending the younger brother crashing to the floor. He hastily stood up.

"Sorry."

Darren shrugged. "I knew that was going to happen one day to some sorry bastard."

Dean smirked at his brother, who scowled back before finding another chair to sit on, although he looked ready to leap off at the first sound of breaking wood.

"So, Mr Stewart—"

"Darren."

"Right, Darren. What was your brother like?"

The old man squinted between the Winchesters, leery. "You're brothers, ain't ya?"

Sam blinked. "Um, yeah, actually we are."

"You look it. Close, but not as close as twins."

"Lance was your twin?" That explained the close resemblance.

"Yep. I was born first, though. So I always felt that I was supposed to look after him."

"This loss must have hit you pretty hard, then."

Darren waved a hand. There were liver spots all up his arm. "When y'get to be my age, death becomes a finish line. I beat him t' life but he beat me t' death. I envy that old weevil."

"He didn't...work himself to death, did he?" said Dean.

"Naw. He'd always been a busybody. Once he gave up swimming, he worked, worked, worked, and never tired. I worked at the same joint for thirty years, but Lance, he lived in the same home and worked at the same damn building for sixty."

"That's very...impressive," said Sam. "Did he like the place?"

"Like it? Ha!" Darren hacked again, spitting into the coke bottle. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? Six decades. Like a dog raised in a kennel, it didn't leave even when its kennel was moved to an open field."

"Why did he give up swimming?" asked Dean. "We, uh, read he was quite good at it, in his younger days."

"This lake was his second home," said Darren. "Ma used to say he'd grow up to be a raisin." He nodded at something on the mantelpiece – a trophy depicting a diving man. "That was his. Earned it after he beat his first, and last, rival, when he was eighteen. His granddaughter gave it to me after he died." He snorted. "Lance grew restless when the lake dried up every summer and he was stuck going to indoor pools."

"But the lake hasn't dried up in years," said Sam. "He didn't keep swimming."

A dark look past over Darren's face, one Sam couldn't put a name to. "Yeah, that was a curve ball for all of us. Too old to be like a fish anymore, he told us. He was...twenty somethin'? It was the damnedest thing."

"Do you think something scared him?"

"Think? No, boy. I knew."

Both Winchesters straightened, sensing the approach of answers at last.

"Marriage."

And then they deflated.

" _Marriage?_ " said Dean, frowning.

"Yep. Had an accident baby, married the mother, and just sorta drifted through his romance years. Killed his passions, including swimming."

Darren, Sam noted, wasn't looking at them anymore. He kept glancing through the window, as though hoping evening would descend faster and compel the brothers to leave. They had seen enough of this kind of behaviour to recognize it, even in cranky old curmudgeons, and they readied their mental pry bars.

"Mr— um, Darren. Something happened, didn't it? Something before the baby," said Sam gently. Again there was the shifty look.

"Nothin' happened."

"He saw someone drown, didn't he?" said Dean.

Milky eyes flicked up, jowls jiggling. "How d'you know about...?"

"And it was after that day that the lake stopped drying up."

"The lake has nothing t'do with—"

"Doesn't it? This doesn't just happen, Darren. Your brother saw Kara Walter drown, and then he worked at the nearby facility for sixty years. If it was just a memory, he would have left long ago."

Darren's eyes looked back up to Lance's trophy, then fell back to his lap, spidery fingers tugging at the threads of a patch in his pants. His breath rattled.

"Darren," said Sam. "Please."

"You've been sitting on this secret for a long time," said Dean. "You wanted people to know. But you didn't know how to tell them."

"I'm old," Darren rumbled. "No one would listen anyway."

"You weren't back then, when you found out. Did you see Kara drown, too?"

He shook his head. "No. But I know where she drowned." He pointed out the window, and the Winchesters turned their heads to look. The curtain was just thin enough to see through.

"The dock?" said Dean. Darren nodded.

"When I got home that night, Lance was sittin' out there, shakin' like a wet puppy. Told me he saw a girl walk into water, and tried to swim after her." He shook his head. "They never found her body, you know."

"Did he say he saw anything else?" Dean demanded. "Anything at all?"

"No." Darren shook his head hard enough that a few wispy hairs fell across his face. "Not...not that night."

This time, when the brothers stiffened, they were not disappointed.

"He was my twin. I recognized every emotion on his face 'cause it was like lookin' in a mirror. I pestered him 'til I was blue in the face, tryin' t' get him to talk to me. Finally, he relented."

"...And what did he say?"

Darren huffed, getting to his feet and waving away Sam's offer to help. He waddled to a mini fridge, pulling out a full bottle of coke. He lifted it at the boys, but they shook their heads in refusal and waited impatiently for Darren to sit back down.

"Well?" asked Dean.

"He said...he said he saw the girl in the water. After the sun went down and the moon came up. I said he was hallucinatin'. He says it's her ghost."

The brothers exchanged a look. "But you didn't believe him."

"Course not! He'd been traumatized by the incident, that's all. But it wasn't long after that that he took a job at the mining corp, then stayed on site when the building was converted into the resort." He cracked open the coke bottle and drank. Some dribbled down his chin, soaking into his shirt. He didn't seem to care.

"So he stayed because he saw...erm, thought he saw a ghost in the water?" said Sam.

"Yep. Said he had t' stay there. Had to."

"Why?" said Dean.

Darren shrugged. "I asked him that every time I saw him. He always answered, 'To keep her happy.'"

Again a look was exchanged between Sam and Dean. Another box checked.

"Did you ever see what he did to...keep her happy?" asked Sam.

His breath rattled more as he shook his head. "Not really. Found him talkin' to the lake, once, at night. But I was caught and after that, he was always more careful when sneaking out. We both lived here with our parents at the time, see. Then he got hisself enough money to buy his own place with his new wife and baby. Didn't talk t' him much after that, even after the missus died, leaving him alone with his kid. I kept this heap of mortar, and I was aware he continued t' talk to the lake. I don't know if his family ever noticed."

"...Darren, I'm sure you've heard of the drownings in the past few days. Strange drownings."

The old man's laugh was sickly. "And you think that has somethin' t' do with the water woman? Is that the real reason you came here? To mock me and my brother?"

"No, sir, not at all!" said Sam quickly. "We're...covering all the bases. I don't suppose you remember anything else of potential importance?"

Darren shook his head. "No. I'm tired now. D'you mind...?"

"Of course, sir. Thank you for your time." Sam stood as Dean grabbed his bag of tacos, leading the way out the door. When Sam glanced back, Darren was staring at Lance's trophy again.

"Crazy old coot," Dean mumbled, once the door was closed behind them. Sam wanted to swat him, but ended up snatching the taco bag instead. He pulled out a burrito before Dean could stop him.

"Come on, man!"

"You should have bought me something," Sam sang, dodging away and tossing the bag back to him.

The brothers wandered to the shore. They judged the dock wasn't so decrepit that it couldn't hold their weights and stepped onto it. The sun danced across the rippling sand dunes below the surface. At the end of the dock, the lake bed fell into a drop off, plunging into a dark, bottomless void. Sam felt a chill just looking at it.

"Kara drowned here, and yet they recovered no body," he muttered, burrito momentarily forgotten.

"I'll bet if they looked now, new technology would probably find her."

"Yeah, but her parents would be dead and she probably didn't have kids. If she had any siblings, I didn't find anything on them."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Closure's not the issue. I'm talking about salting and burning whatever's left so she stops drowning people."

"She hadn't drowned anyone for over half a century. You heard Darren. Lance kept her...happy. Appeased. If we can find out how..."

"What, to continue his ritual?"

Sam shrugged. "Dunno." He bit into the burrito, then cursed into it as a ripped piece of foil floated free and landed in the water.

"Smooth."

"Shut up." He crouched, reaching out as far as he could, but the wind carried the foil further out onto the lake.

"Hey." Dean nudged his backside with a shin, threatening to kick him off. "Dare you to jump in and get it."

"Ha, very funny." Sam stood, frowning at the foil.

"Nobody likes a litterbug, Sammy."

"If you're all of a sudden the Friendly Green Giant, you go get it."

"I'm not going in there!"

Sam scoffed lightly and strode off the dock, eating the burrito on the way back to the car.

"We're leaving the windows open," Dean grumbled.

"Until the wind pick up and fills your car with dirt."

"One step at a time."

The Impala made a smooth U-turn, retreating off the dead-end road. When they reached a promenade, which sat between them and the lake, Dean's cell trilled. He answered it. "Bobby...Uh huh... Yeah, rusalka... Wait, what?"

Sam glanced sideways at his brother, then blinked when Dean pulled over, getting out. "I'm losing you, Bobby." He waved Sam back down, pulling the cell away from his mouth for a moment. "I don't want you following me around with your...toxicity." He slammed the door shut and stepped onto the promenade, trying to keep a signal. Sam sighed and grabbed a tome from the back seat. Perhaps the only reason why he didn't think Dean a complete dick was because they were brothers.

As he predicted, the wind picked up. Closing his eyes against the flying debris, Sam rolled the windows up, and returned his focus to the book, or tried to. Too much was going through his head, and he kept reading the same paragraph over and over without taking in a single word.

Then, cold. Wet. He frowned, leaning forward to look at his feet just in time to see a drop of water land on his shoe, soaking through. It had come from somewhere in the dash. He reached down, pressing his knuckles into the floor mat. Water met his fingers. Another drip landed on the back of his hand, then a steady stream trickled down.

Confusion, then panic.

"Dean." He grabbed the door handle just as the locks snapped shut. "Dean!" He couldn't pull the nubs up and the window crank was jammed. Even as he struggled with both, water began to gush in through the air vents. "DEAN!" Sam bashed his palm against the window, but his brother was a faceless figure on the promenade, too far away.

Icy water filled the footwells. Sam tried all the doors, all the locks, all the windows. All jammed, all sealed. The Impala had been turned against him.

 _Gun. Where's a gun?!_ He yanked open the glove compartment, only for more water to torrent in, washing out spare, ruined cell phones and paper. When his hands dived in, seeking the weapon, water from the vents sprayed him in the face with the power of a hydrant. Spluttering and coughing, he threw an arm up to protect himself, to see. If the gun was there, the rusalka wasn't letting him have it.

"No!" He took a deep breath, lied across the seats and tried to kick the window, but something impeded his strength, as though he were caught in honey. The water continued to pour in, faster and faster. Sam was forced to sit up, sputtering and gasping. Dark strands of hair were plastered to his face. He brushed them aside.

The water rose to his collarbone.

"Dean! Help!" He pressed his face against the ceiling, breathing in what was left. The water crept higher, higher, rising up past his neck, then his jaw. He took a last few desperate breaths, and then it was all gone. He opened his eyes and attacked all the doors and windows again. The water hindered the power behind strikes to the glass. By the time he determined the doors were still stuck, he was out of breath.

His vision blurred and splotched. His chest bucked in protest, trying to exhale, and bubbles escaped through his nose and lips. He clawed at the driver's side door again, elbowing the horn more than once. Then he pushed against the ceiling, hoping against odds that there was air again, to no avail.

So desperate for fresh air, the used bubbled free and he inhaled water. Coughing only made it worse, and his spotted vision dimmed. But then he saw something.

Perhaps it was the tricks of an oxygen-deprived mind, but he thought he saw the outline of a woman in the car with him. Her face was round and her hair long, and she was transparent. He could barely make out the features of her face. The rusalka?

She reached out. He felt her hand on his face, and suddenly he was calm. This wasn't so bad. It didn't even hurt.

He weakened...faded...

 _Smash!_ BANG!

The rusalka shrieked, her image dispersing as pellets of rock salt blasted in and water poured out through the shattered window. But Sam was not conscious to see it. Nor did he feel more water torrent out as Dean yanked the door open.

"Sam!"

Dean dropped the shotgun and grabbed hold of his brother, hauling him from the car. The rest of the water cascaded free, pooling around the Impala.

"Sammy." Setting him flat on the ground, Dean checked his pulse, then shook him by the shoulders. "Breathe, dammit!" He looked around, hoping somebody, anybody, was around. But they were alone. "Crap."

He knew what he had to do, but he _really_ didn't want to. Tilting Sam's head back to open his airway, he looked around one last time, grimacing. No one had materialized in the immediate vicinity. He pinched Sam's nose closed with one hand, his other pulling his jaw open.

"The things I do for family." He took a deep breath, then, with a wince, covered Sam's mouth with his own, pushing every bit of air he could into the lungs of his brother. "Gah." He overlapped his hands, curled his fingers and pressed the heel of the underlying hand hard into Sam's sternum. He leaned over him, putting all of his upper body strength into the effort of making Sam's heart beat.

Several times he pushed down. "Come on!" He gave him more air, then more compressions. "Wake up, Sammy!" The gross factor faded as dread spawned, and he realized he might lose his baby brother.

Another breath, another set of compressions. He lost hope. But it was during the fourth share of breath that Sam finally woke up. Messily.

He vomited water in Dean's face, then rolled onto his side as more was forced from his body, his nose burning, eyes streaming. He tried to breathe only to heave again.

Deadpan, Dean spat out the regurgitated water, then slowly wiped his face as his brother coughed up the rest, gasping coarsely.

"You're welcome," he said flatly.

"Dean?" Sam spat and rolled onto his back, squinting against the sun. "What...?"

"I just saved your ass, that's what." Dean tried to dry his face, but everything he had on was sodden. Sam frowned.

"So you...?"

"Yeah."

"...Dude."

"I had no choice, alright? No one else was around." He stood, holding his arm down for Sam to grasp and pulling him to his feet. "Let us never speak of this again."

"Uh, yeah. Dean...thanks."

"Mm hm." Dean looked his car over. "You're paying for the new window."


	4. Honeyed Words

~4~ Honeyed Words

The Impala wasn't happy as it rattled and clanged back to the motel, where it released its passengers. Sam looked to be the human persona of the car, shivering, wet, miserable. His feet squelched in his shoes, his pants felt way too tight, and worse: the wind hadn't died down, so by the time he got inside, he was coated in desert dust too.

"Aww, poor widdle Sammy," Dean cooed. He chortled and dodged out of the way of Sam's flying shoe.

"Going for a shower," he grumbled, slouching towards the bathroom.

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," said Dean. "Seriously. If that rusalka can fill Baby with water, she can probably drown you in a shower."

Sam flopped onto a bed like he had no bones, groaning. "Why me?"

"Because you're a sap."

"No, really. Why me? I have nothing to do with Kara's drowning or the mining proposition. And why those other three? The shallow wader and fishermen? I don't get it."

"Maybe she didn't like your face."

"Dean, stop it." Sam pulled a pillow over his head. He felt like he'd spent the whole day running around in a suit of armour. He was exhausted. "Whmph phim omphy phey?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Sam knocked the pillow off. "What did Bobby say? On the phone?"

"Right, right. Well, what we already know. Drowned virgin. Guardian spirit. Associated with the triskel-whatsit—"

"Triskelion." Sam pulled the marked pebble from his pocket, found in a cup holder in the Impala after his near death experience, and tossed it onto the other bed.

"Yeah, that."

"What else?"

"Oh, and it likes... Well, it enjoys...um..." Dean opened and closed his mouth several times, a fish on land. Sam lifted his head to look at him, eyebrows raised.

"...Enjoys...?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Sweet talking."

Sam struggled to keep a straight face. "What?"

"Rusalki like...sweet-talking. Flattery."

"...You're joking."

"They're ladies who died virgins, Sam. Okay? Maybe it's the best they got, now."

Sam shook his head with a snort. "You sure Bobby wasn't drunk when he told you that?"

"I'm sure!"

"Okay, okay." Sam sat upright, damp hair sticking up at the back of his head. "So a virgin dies and takes guardianship of where she drowned. She kills people unless she's... _wooed_ , and she vitalizes the water source to boot?"

"That about sums it up."

"So maybe Lance did have a romantic side...even if it was like...necrophilia." He coughed. "What else did Bobby say?"

"Not much else. But he called it a spirit. So it could be defeated like a spirit."

"...Well unless we can drain an entire lake, or salt and burn it – which I guess we could if we were desperate and had a mountain of salt – we have to swim to find her bones. But if they couldn't find her sixty years ago, how will we?"

Dean paced in the kitchenette, close by the rattling air conditioner. He tapped his chin. "Does anything live in that lake?"

"Back when it used to dry up every year, not much. Since it stopped, they've stocked it with fish."

"So no crocodiles, alligators or the Loch Ness Monster?"

Sam snorted. "No reports of any of those. Not even alleged sightings that I've discovered."

"But where Darren said the girl drowned, they found nothing. She must have drifted just far enough away."

Sam sighed, then hauled himself to his feet, only to plop himself down at the table and pull his laptop in front of him. Flipping it open, he brought up the police report of Kara's death, peering at the grainy photo, reading every word of the article in case he'd missed something. "...Huh."

"What?" said Dean.

"...Darren's house. That was the north side of the lake."

"Yeah?"

"This report says Lance Stewart claimed she drowned closer to the mine HQ, now the resort, a few miles south... Why would he claim that if Darren said she died near the house?"

"Maybe Darren remembered wrong. Been, what, twenty years?"

"Possible, I guess." Sam rubbed his mouth, thinking. "If Lance saw her drown, he probably wouldn't want to mention it was by the house. Might have made him look guilty."

"What if he _was_ guilty?"

"Doesn't matter. He's dead and she has to be stopped. They wouldn't have found her remains if they thought she'd died a couple miles away from where she actually drowned."

"Corpses float."

"...Maybe the rusalka didn't want hers to."

Dean blinked at him, deadpan. "Since when can spirits handle their own remains? Or if they can, how would they know what could happen to them?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "Dunno."

Dean released a breath through his nose, looking out the window. "You know, there's one thing we haven't considered. Suicide."

"What difference does that make?"

"How do you kill yourself in water, Sam? You don't just dunk your head and hope you have the willpower to overcome pure instinct. I'm talking about rocks in the pockets, or a frigging anchor to the ankle. Anything."

"Huh. Lance reported that she went under, and that's it. No splashing, no screaming. But as he said it happened closer to the resort..." Sam raised a hand and let it fall on his lap. "They didn't look in the right place for a body."

Dean leaned on a counter, stretching his neck back. "So we gotta go down by the dock and look ourselves. Awesome."

"Yeah," said Sam, snorting. "But if we don't figure out what makes her angry, we can't go swimming."

"Scores of people go into that lake everyday, and nothing's happened to most of them."

"I didn't even touch the water. Look what happened."

"So what _did_ you do?"

Sam looked on, thinking, and almost shrugged until he remembered. "I dropped a piece of foil in the water."

"Wait, so you think the rusalka went after you because you _littered?_ "

"It's her home, Dean. She protects it. Life flourishes in it. She probably destroys anything that might contaminate it."

"...Like a mine."

"Like a mine." Sam stood. "We should speak with Sophia's fiancé, whatshisname...Josh. He could be the only one left who knows about the proposition."

* * *

"Checked out? What do you mean, checked out?"

The clerk raised a bushy eyebrow at Dean.

"Am I speaking Spanish?"

"I don't believe this." Dean rubbed his eyes. So close, they'd been. So close! Dean's lookout – a maid he'd worked his charms on – had called Dean as soon as she saw Josh Jenkins. But by the time the Winchesters got to the resort, he'd already left, for good. Rattled by his fiancée's death, probably. He would still be in the town, for the police investigation, but where, they had no idea.

Dean pulled away from the check-in desk with his brother, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "Great."

"People are in danger," said Sam. "We can't spend time looking for Josh. We'll have to consider the emails between him and Nick evidence enough. If Lance Steward heard about the mine proposition, he could have mentioned it to Kara. Or maybe she overheard it somehow. The lake's her domain – wouldn't surprise me if she could hear everything everyone was saying. And if it is litterbugs she's going after, that would explain how she knows who they are, too."

"It's certainly a way to get her attention," Dean muttered.

"Yeah...We can't risk swimming where her bones are, not with her on garbage patrol."

"So how do we keep her away?"

The brothers stepped out of the resort, silent as they descended the stairs and passed the British-style phone booth where Sophia had died, which was now wrapped in police tape. Sam's shoes squelched with every step.

"I guess it's...less about keeping her away and more like drawing her attention elsewhere," he mumbled.

"Well that clears it up," said Dean gruffly. "Thanks."

"Think about it. What did you say appeases rusalki?"

Dean's head whipped over to him. "You saying we have to sweet talk a _spirit_?"

"Not we, _you._ "

" _Ooooh_ , no. Off the table."

"Come on, Dean. This would be a breeze for you."

"Not _sweet talking_. My forte lies within my personal mojo. My...sexy, dashing, devil-may-care demeanour."

"You mean your inflated ego and testosterone boosters."

"Shut up." Dean shoved him into a bush. Sam was still grinning as he emerged.

"Anyway, you're the soft, squishy, cuddly one," said Dean. "You should be the one to woo a dead virgin."

"I'm the stronger swimmer. You're like a drowning bird in the water. Plus she already tried to kill me."

"I _shot_ her. You can start by apologizing about a little piece of burrito foil. Then you put on your puppy-eyes and confess your undying love to her."

Sam scoffed but a smile tugged at one side of his mouth. "If I do this, I get to drive the rest of the month."

"Fat chance, Romeo."

* * *

Night fell. Sam had spent the rest of the day thinking up flattering, loving, romantic crap he thought might sound pleasing to a ghost virgin, and mostly memorized poems and references chosen from films made after the mid '90s. He could only hope Lance Stewart hadn't done the same thing.

"Well?" said Dean, pulling on his shoes.

Sam adjusted the collar of his jacket and shrugged. "Guess I'm ready."

"So how am I going to know when you've got the rusalka's attention?"

"Call you, I suppose."

"Signal was sketchy before. You can try, but we should have a plan B." Dean opened his duffle bag and tossed Sam a flashlight. "Shine this across the water a few times."

"Sounds good."

Ensuring they had all they needed in the trunk of the Impala, they drove to the lake. They had selected a place from which Sam was to try and draw the rusalka in – an abandoned boathouse on the shore opposite from Darren's cabin where Dean would swim for bones. Although they weren't sure if distance affected the spirit's radar, they decided to try it.

Sam climbed out of the car, opened the trunk and pulled out a backpack with guns, salt rounds and iron tools. He stopped by Dean's window.

"Alright. Good luck."

"You too. Remember, aim for third base."

"You're gross."

"Hey, this might be the luckiest night you've had in months!" The Impala's wheels spun before the tires found enough friction to pull away, but Sam was still too slow to punch his brother's shoulder before he escaped. He shook his head and made for the boathouse, letting the sounds of crickets and gentle lap of waves on the shore calm his wracked nerves.

The boathouse sat on low wooden stilts, surrounded by water and accessible by a walkway from the shore. The padlock on the front door was broken. Sam knocked it from the latch and entered with caution, floorboards creaking underfoot. It reeked of motor oil and fish. A broken canoe sat in a cradle in the middle of the room, and the windows were so filthy it was hard to differentiate between them and the panelled walls. The doors of cupboards and cabinets hung open, some off their hinges, but there were no tools, having been claimed or looted long ago. Sam was glad he'd brought his own sources of iron.

He made his way to the twin back doors, which opened up onto a ramp sloping to the water and a wraparound deck. He stood at the top of the ramp, gazing at the resort to the south. It might have been beautiful if not for the danger below his feet.

He checked the time. He knew it took at least twenty minutes to drive from one side of the lake to the other. After ten, he watched east of the resort's boundaries, and fancied he saw the Impala's headlights snaking their way towards Darren's house.

It had almost been twenty minutes when he saw two distinctive lights on the other side of the lake. The high beams flicked once, twice, three times. Sam marked the time, allowing another ten minutes for Dean to walk the rest of the roadless way to the dock and ready himself for a swim.

Sam took off his shoes and socks before sitting on the edge of the deck beside the ramp. Then, with a deep breath, he dipped his feet into the water.

* * *

 _This is stupid._

Dean stood at the end of the dock, gazing at the black, black water. _Lake Placid_ came to mind, and he shuddered.

"Sam said no crocodiles. We trust Sam." He began to undress, pulling off his jacket and shirt, then his shoes, leaving them beside the kerosene and salt canister. After tugging off his socks, he glanced behind him, to see that Darren's house looked to be asleep. There wasn't even a porch light. Heaving a sigh, Dean undid his belt and removed his jeans, glad the night was warm as he stood there in his boxers.

Out of a duffle bag came a snorkel mask and a headlamp, guaranteed to be one hundred percent waterproof or your money back. He covered the glass of the lamp as he flicked it on to test it. Turning it back off, he then put on a water utility belt complete with iron knife and grabbed the fishing net he was to use to bring up the bones he found...Might find.

Grumbling to hide his own nerves from himself, Dean checked his cell. No signal.

"Alright. Plan B." He kept his eyes on the opposite shore. It was so dark it was like there was no opposite shore. That would make Sam's flashlight impossible to miss.

"Put on your groove, Sammy."

* * *

Sam tried to stay relaxed. Deep breaths and gentle humming released the tension in his muscles, but then a thought would bring him back to his objective and he would go taut again.

His feet numbed. He imagined little fish nibbling at his toes. He wiggled them.

The moon rose, glazing the boathouse in silver. But only when it broke from the horizon and could admire its own image in the lake did something stir in the watery depths.

Sam's humming faltered, but he forced it to resume. All his memorized quotes and poems vanished from his head. Figures. It was exam time and suddenly he knew nothing.

 _Just calm down._ He took another deep breath, held it, then released it slowly. What had he just been humming? The lullaby from _Pan's Labyrinth_. Keep going with that.

His voice cracked a few times, but he continued to hum. There. Something was definitely in the water. It slithered past his foot. He flinched but kept humming. The water was cold now. Ice cold. Goosebumps rose all over his body.

He saw her again. A flicker of silver below a film of black, like a fish. No. A shark. She was too dangerous to be anything less. And he had her attention now.

He looked at his phone, still humming, silently cursing upon seeing no signal. He slowly reached behind him, grasping the flashlight. He flicked it three times over the water before setting it behind him again, and then he stopped humming. He leaned forward to peer into the depths.

"Kara. I know it's you."

* * *

Dean was beginning to think Sam really was hopeless with the ladies, even dead ones. But then he saw the three white pinpricks of light. He sighed with both relief and apprehension.

"There you go, Sammy." He began to hyperventilate. It was risky but he needed to be underwater for as long as he could at a time. He sat on the edge of the dock, legs submerging half way up his shins. It was bitterly cold. He pulled the mask down over his eyes and strapped the headlamp on before slowly turning and easing the rest of himself into the water, careful not to splash. His breath shuddered as the chill enveloped his body. He grasped the fishing net and pushed away from the dock. It was like stepping off a cliff, blindfolded. His teeth chattered. He clenched his jaw, as though the sound might draw the rusalka to him, and turned on the headlamp. Then he submerged.

* * *

"I know who you are."

Another brush against his foot. It felt like fingers. But then, Sam was so numb he probably imagined it. His heart pounded. What if she could sense his fear?

"I heard what happened to you. I thought I'd come by and...help you feel better."

Those were definitely fingers. They gripped his ankle and he tensed, almost kicking them away.

"Y-your friend died a week ago. Is that why you're angry?"

The grip loosened. Sam's chest did not.

"He was a nice man, right? He cared about you. He treated you as every woman should be treated." _I hope_. "Before he died...he told me about you. How beautiful you w— are."

The fingers slipped away from his ankle, and he pulled both feet out of the water, only to get onto his knees and lean over the edge, to see better.

There she was. Floating through the water like a kite on the wind, glowing faintly. Her long silvery hair rippled in the moonlight. He could see her features better than when he was drowning in the Impala, and they were young and innocent. Her clothes seemed to change styles, and sometimes appeared whole or tattered. The triskelion looked to be burned into her flesh just below her collarbone. She was pale green, mirage-like beneath the surface. It irked him. But it also calmed him.

Then in a flicker of reality, she was nose to nose with him, solid, cold, angry. He recoiled with a cry, then sputtered as water splashed across his face. He reached for his gun...and then a piece of foil bounced off his cheek. She wasn't attacking. It was the garbage he had accidentally dropped in the lake hours before.

"Right. You knew that was me."

She submerged, glaring up at him.

"I am truly sorry for doing that. That's another reason why I came. To apologize. I tried to get it back." _Not hard enough_ , he scolded himself. This might have ruined everything! But she still hadn't tried to drown him...again.

 _Sweet talking. Wooing. Come on, think, Sam!_

"Do...do you want to know what Lance said to me? Before he passed away?"

Kara tilted her head and blinked. He took it as his cue to continue.

"He said...he didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep, because he'd miss you, and he didn't want to miss a thing."

She blinked again, then drifted closer to the surface, face expectant. So she didn't know Aerosmith. Good.

Sam cleared his throat. "You should know...death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while." Did he sound as corny to her as he did to him? But she seemed to like it. So, go corny.

"I can see why he loved you," said Sam. "Would do anything for you. I...I would do anything for you, too. What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

* * *

Dean's arms and legs propelled him down into the water, steady and strong. _Drowning bird, indeed_ , he thought. The cold worsened the deeper he went, the darkness encroaching with the pressure on his ears. He turned his head slowly, scanning the declining bottom in search of bones. Lake weeds brushed against his belly and he shuddered. _Gross._

Stones. More weeds. An old anchor. No bones. The silty bottom continued to descend, beyond the reach of his light and his physical capacity to survive in the depths. A couple minutes passed and he made himself ascend. He needed his remaining oxygen to reach the surface.

He broke water, gasping. He pulled the mask away from his eyes to release water that had leaked in. Then another deep breath had him going down again, light panning left and right. What if the bones had gotten buried over the years? Dreading the idea, he knew he had to get deep enough to poke his fingers into the mud.

 _I'll take grave digging over this any day_.

* * *

Was she blushing? Sam didn't know if spirits could blush. She was definitely smiling. He smiled back.

"You're so beautiful. You make me want to be a better man."

She giggled, an echoing, eerie sound. Her face was just below the surface. To him her movements seemed flirtatious, but for some reason that didn't bother him. Sam reached into the water, and found himself pleased he could touch her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into it. Her fingers lightly brushed the back of his hand. When she next gazed at him, her eyes were imploring.

"I'd rather spend one lifetime with you, than face all the ages of this world alone."

It made little sense to a mortal. To an immortal, it was everything. Her head breached the surface without a ripple, but when she kissed him her lips were solid. They were cold and wet but he didn't care. Couldn't care. She was beautiful and she had chosen him.

* * *

Three times Dean had to dive and resurface. And each time a large portion of his strength was spent. He couldn't keep warm anymore, so numb he didn't feel the tangling weeds or the light on his head.

As he went down once more, he decided – after this, he would climb out, get dressed, and call Sam off. They could try again another day. But that was not to be.

A glint caught his eye. Halfway through his lungful of air, he swam closer, careful not to disturb the lake bed. He put his thumb and forefinger into the mud to pick up the golden object. A heart. A locket.

Trying not to feel excited, Dean gave it a tug. The chain was stuck in the mud. He tugged harder, and as it broke free, a few vertebrae were pulled out with it.

Jackpot.

* * *

Kara's fingers ran through his hair but didn't get it wet. Sam kept his eyes closed, forgetting the rest of his cheezy quotes, not minding that he was smooching a ghost old enough to be his grandmother. The fact that she was a ghost at all should have been warning enough. As Lance had been infatuated, so now was Sam. He knew, and he didn't care. Nor did he care that she was coaxing him into the water. He slipped in easily, keeping hold of her as she drew him deeper.

Once several feet below the surface, she pulled away, and he let her with regret. He opened his eyes, eager to see her face again, only to blink in confusion.

He tried to ask what was wrong, but only bubbles came out of his mouth. He touched her cheek, but her brow remained scrunched and her eyes bespoke worry. Then she released him, turning and shooting off through the water. Sam watched her go with longing and disappointment...and confusion.

 _What...the hell am I doing?_

He turned in a circle, but couldn't even see the stilts of the boathouse. As the rusalka drew away, her influence ebbed—mostly—and he realized he needed air.

He swam for the surface, then back to the boathouse. Once he'd pulled himself out of the water, shivering, he gazed after where she had gone. He'd looked that way before. Why? Because he'd been waiting for something...a signal. A signal from...Dean's car. Dean. Dean was out there. Dean was in the water.

Slowly the wheels and cogs of Sam's mind rattled out the wrenches, and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Distracting the rusalka, not exchanging spit with it! But if the rusalka had left now, in a panic, that could only mean...

Dean had found her bones. And she could sense it.

"Oh, crap."

* * *

 **Lines I unabashedly stole because I don't know how to sweet talk:**

 **"I don't want to close my eyes..." Altered from _I Don't Want to Miss a Thing_ by Aerosmith.**

 **"Death cannot stop true love..." _The Princess Bride._**

 **"What do you want? You want the moon...?" _It's a Wonderful Life_.**

 **"You make me want to be a better man." _As Good as It Gets_.**

 **"I'd rather spend one lifetime with you..." _The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring._**


	5. To the Depths

**Thanks to everyone who favourited, followed and reviewed! :)**

* * *

~5~ To the Depths

Dean plucked ribs and vertebrae and tugged femurs and humeri out of the mud, stuffing them all into the fishing net. He couldn't help but smirk with triumph. The fickle luck that sometimes followed him around had decided to join him in this watery grave.

He had at least half of Kara's skeleton in the net when something smacked into his shoulder. Bubbles escaped between his lips as he was knocked sideways. Eyes wide, his head whipped this way and that, seeking what had struck him. A fish? A _crocodile?_

Something caught on the edges of the light's limits, and then it was gone.

Stillness. Dean was running out of breath. He clawed to the surface, breaking it with a sputtering whoosh. As he gulped down fresh air, he trod water in a circle, the lamp turning with his head like a lighthouse. He didn't know what he expected to see.

Dare he go back down? He had to. Now that he had found the bones, this would be his only chance.

He drew in a last breath and submerged, going as straight down as he could. The glint of Kara's locket in the mud led him back to the remains.

Another cautious look around, and he grabbed the net. But then he was struck again, hard, in the other shoulder. He tried to swing a fist, but whatever it was, it was already gone. Before he could reach for the bones, something smashed into his ribs. He cried out, the sound muffled and accompanied by bubbles. He twisted in circles, pain radiating from his side. The light found nothing, but something came. It slammed into his lower back, then came around and cracked against his thigh, spinning him in the water like a wheel. The shock released air from his lungs, and he knew he had to surface.

But the entity struck yet again, behind his head, and both the light and the mask were knocked off. Before he could grab either, an icy hand gripped his ankle, and more bubbles burst from his mouth and nose as it dragged him through the water. He kicked, but his foot went through whatever had hold of him. He twisted around and forced his eyes open, only to see the rusalka.

She sensed his struggle, and looked back at him.

How Sam had managed to keep her captivated for as long as he had was a mystery to Dean. She was one ugly broad. Faintly glowing, her eyes were white and dead, her cheeks hollow. Her mouth was full of long, needle teeth, reminding him of a deep sea fish. She hissed at him and faced forward again, dragging Dean further and further away from her bones. And not towards the surface.

 _Sam!_

* * *

How to draw her back. How?!

Sam called to her, pleading for her return. He even tried singing a love song. He might have been okay had he been rocking with Bon Jovi, but alone he sounded hammered.

His hands went to his hair, as though to pull an idea from his head. He waited for the calm that always came when his brother was in danger and he alone could save him. And at the sight of the crumpled burrito foil on the deck, the calm came.

Sam barged into the boathouse, wrinkling his nose at the stench of oil and fish. He rummaged through all the cupboards, batting aside empty containers, canisters and bottles, knocking over a glass jar or two, letting them smash on the floor. Then his hand brushed a greasy, black jug. He seized it and read the label. Boat motor oil.

He nearly tripped over the threshold as he raced back outside, twisting the cap. It clicked and jammed.

"Dammit!" Blasted child-proofing! It was so gummed with gunk, he couldn't read how to remove the lid. So he grabbed his pistol and shot it off.

" _Hey!_ " He stood at the edge of the dock and overturned the jug, letting amber fluid chug into the water. "Come get me!"

* * *

Blind, cold, and starved of air, it was all Dean could do to not inhale water. The pressure on ears intensified. She was dragging him deeper. He thrashed in her hold.

 _Knife, my knife!_

He managed to tug it from its sheath, but getting close to her was a different, and harder, matter. It was like he was being hauled behind a speed boat.

And then she released him. Dean couldn't see. There wasn't even a glimmer of moonlight to tell him where the surface was. He took a guess and started to kick and claw, keeping a firm grip on the knife.

Red splotched his vision. He was already past his limits, and yet he fought on, finally seeing moonlight. He had no idea what he'd done in his life to earn those last few seconds of strength, but he finally broke free of the water, spitting and gasping violently. He took several gulps of air before turning around and around, as though hoping to see the rusalka coming. Had he not hyperventilated earlier, he most certainly would have drowned. Why did she let him go?

Without his light, Dean could barely see the dock. It was a only few hundred feet away but it might as well have been thousands. How was he supposed to reach there and find the bones again before she dragged him under for good?

* * *

After shaking out the last drops of oil, Sam threw the jug in the water too, chest heaving to keep up with his racing heart.

"Come on, you bitch."

The whole boathouse shuddered. Sam staggered from the suddenness of it.

 _Uh oh._

With a moan, the deck bucked, snapping boards and spitting nails. Sam snatched up his backpack and stumbled inside. But when he got out the front door, the walkway to the shore was gone. Smashed to bits. The water wasn't deep but she was down there, and she was pissed.

"Hurry up, Dean."

The water surged and churned below the structure. The floor began to rock, and he knew the stilts were failing. Should he jump? He might make it. Or he might just make it easier for her to get him. Before he could decide, the stilts snapped one by one, like shattering bones. The boathouse tilted and began to slide into the water. Sam toppled back in through the doorway, which slammed shut of its own accord.

He grabbed a counter before he could plunge to the far end of the room. But then the floor levelled out, swaying gently like a boat. He used his sleeve to brush filth off the window, revealing that the building was floating out onto the lake.

Water began to squirt in through the cracks, to burble up between the floorboards. There were too many leaks to plug. Sam looked to the ceiling, hoping for a skylight or hatch. There was nothing but rafters. But the water was rising up past his knees.

"Roof it is."

Sam ensured his backpack was secure on his back before climbing onto a counter, then up onto a standing cupboard. He grasped the nearest rafter and pulled himself up with ease. Just in time, the rusalka shattered the windows, frigid water gushing in to displace the air and slowly devour the entire building.

Sam clambered to the peak of the ceiling, and there, he began to dig. He clawed into the wood. Slivers stabbed into his fingers, beneath his nails.

 _Idiot!_ Biting back the pain, he reached over his shoulder and pulled out an iron crowbar from his backpack. He lied against a rafter and stabbed it into the wood, trying to rip out boards. Below him, the water rose, black and merciless. The air was so cold he could see his breath. He attacked harder, prying and twisting, encouraged by the sounds of squealing nails and splintering wood. Several chunks were dropped into the water below, and once he bore a large enough hole, he ripped aside tar paper and layers of plywood. By the time he was pushing through shingles, water was lapping at his back.

Sam panicked. He shoved his head, arm and shoulder through – and got stuck.

"Crap!" His feet were in the water. He felt the cold creep up his legs. His other arm flailed with the crowbar, and that seemed to be keeping the rusalka away for the moment. But for how long?

The more he thrashed, the more the shingles snagged his collar and cut his neck. Retreating, he discovered the painful way, wasn't an option. He had to keep digging.

Sam tore each shingle off, away from his collar. His other hand blindly attacked the boards on the inside with the crowbar. Water had risen up to his chest. The cold made it difficult to breathe. He watched the water slowly creeping up on the outside. It was lapping at his neck by the time he finally ripped away enough material to force his other shoulder through, then, abandoning the backpack, wriggle the rest of the way out.

Panting, he stood on the peak of the roof and turned in a circle, seeking something, anything, to help him get out of this predicament. All he had left was the crowbar. Everything else had been claimed by the lake.

Apart from the ripples and bubbles around the sinking boathouse, the water was deathly still. Eyes wide in the darkness, Sam scanned for the rusalka. There, a wake. She was circling. Waiting. Or playing?

The boathouse should have been at the bottom of the lake by now. As another minute snailed by he knew she was still controlling its descent. Perhaps he'd been wrong – Dean hadn't found the bones. Or worse, he had, only for the rusalka to drown him before Sam could lure her back. The thought of that made him angry. He shook, and not from the cold.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Finish me off!"

The boathouse lurched, nearly making him topple into the water. When it shuddered, he had to crouch to retain his balance. It scared him, the strength she had to control the lake like this. The water was at his feet now. He looked to shore, but it was several yards away. He'd never make it.

His hand tightened around the crowbar. He had to try. Better to die trying to survive than to let death come as he cowered, helpless.

Sam faced the end of the roof, closest to the shore. He ran, made ready to jump—

And then a wave surged before him, crashing into him head on and slamming him back onto the roof. He cried out, pain shooting out through his whole body, feeling like his spine had snapped in two. He rolled onto his front, moaning, clinging to the roof's ridge even as it sank below the surface at last. He went to stand, only for an unseen presence to grab his wrist, pulling him underwater. His shout of protest came out as bubbles and a muffled noise. He tried to hook the crowbar over the ridge and stop himself from being dragged in deeper. But it ripped free of the shingles, so he spun around and slashed the tool through the water.

The rusalka's power wavered for a moment, as though she were cowering from the iron. Sam tore free and clawed for the surface.

 _Wham!_ He was struck so hard in the side he became discombobulated. He tried to spot what had hit him, but he saw still nothing when he was hit in the gut, and all of his precious air was forced from his chest in an explosion of bubbles.

He realized too late he had dropped the crowbar. And there was nothing worse than being winded underwater. Like a demented frog he struggled to reach the surface, dazed and pained but determined to live. He made it, and for some reason the rusalka let him get several gulps of air before she grasped the back of his collar and hauled him into the depths.

He fought wildly, thrashing and kicking and throwing fists. But it was like someone had tied an anchor to his neck. He sank past the large dark mass of the boathouse, the pressure on his ears and chest making it impossible to think. Then his back hit mud, cold and silty. The moonlight almost didn't reach this far deep but he could tell where she was. The water warped and swirled as she floated through it, indistinct, frigid.

He had little time before he needed air again. And all of that would have to be spent on getting back to the surface. By the way she cuddled up to him, half lying on his chest, she wasn't going to let him.

A woman's voice, the rusalka's, was heard briefly and clearly in his head.

 _Mine._

* * *

It was too quiet. Dean had found the bones again, after several stressful minutes, because when the rusalka had last struck him, his headlamp had fallen off – right beside her remains. But he'd been able make two trips, grabbing bones and bringing them up to pile on the dock. Why wasn't she defending her remains now that she knew they were being unearthed?

Dean ensured he had every bone, every finger joint and tooth, up on the dock before he surfaced for the last time. It was with great relief that he heaved himself out of the water. Pushing all the remains together, he also set the locket on the pile, just in case. He rattled with cold but he didn't stop to pull on clothes, going straight for the salt canister and kerosene. He was generous with both. Then he pulled matches from the duffle bag, ready to be rid of this cow.

He exhaled, and his breath plumed.

"Aw, great."

Dean fumbled with the matchbox, his fingers too numb to function. "Dammit." Several matches ended up at his feet. He knelt to grab them, and when he stood, he was confronted by Darren Stewart.

"Whoa!" He leaped back, mind scrambling to think up an excuse as to why he was standing on the old man's property with a pile of bones. But then he realized...it wasn't Darren.

"Don't, please, don't." The man flickered in and out of sight. Wonderful. Lance Stewart's ghost. "She's all I got."

Dean forced a sympathetic smile, crude as it was with his numb cheeks. "Sorry, buddy, but you're dead and she's killing people."

"She dint mean to! Honest! She promised she wouldn't after I..."

"And you believed her? Then why did you stay? Why didn't you go with the reaper?"

Lance looked terrified for a dead person. "She...she promised."

"Well she lied. Five have drowned so far, and my brother's next. Hell, _I_ almost was!"

"Because you were hurtin' her! _They_ were hurtin' her!"

"Okay, so a few people dropped some garbage in the lake. That's no reason to go killing them."

"That's what I kept tellin' her. For sixty years I stopped her from drowning folk. I thought, after so long, the urge t' protect her home wouldn't be so violent. But then I learned of a mining proposition that might have affected this lake. I...I told her t' leave. Find another lake t' occupy. Before I could convince her..." Lance shrugged.

"Dude, you're supposed to put ghosts to rest, not court them for over half a century." Dean held up the matches. "This is how. It has to be done, Lance."

"Just leave her alone. Now that I'm dead, I could join her. I could keep her company, and stop her from killing anymore. You want your brother saved? I can tell her t' let him go! Watch!" He vanished.

"...Lance...? _Lance?_ " Dean threw down the matches. Hardly satisfying, but he was so cold he didn't care. "Dammit, Lance!"

Something was keeping the man here. Sam said his body had been cremated, so it had to be an object. What could it be? The last thing Dean needed was another vengeful ghost to haunt his ass after he ganked its girlfriend.

* * *

Sam had no idea what was happening. One moment he was becoming one with the lake bed, a cuddle toy for the rusalka, the next he was being rocketing towards the surface, something icy cold gripping his upper arms. He broke the surface and spewed water, inhaling raggedly. His mind cleared and the pain in his chest lessened. The hold on his arms vanished. Was the rusalka suddenly taking pity on him?

He didn't really care. He needed to get to shore.

Sam kicked off his shoes and pulled out of his jacket, abandoning the extra weight. Every breath shook with the cold, and he wondered how he could have possibly complained about the heat of the day. He began a calm, controlled breaststroke towards shore, but kept his head above water. At any moment he thought he would feel the rusalka's icy fingers on his ankle. The threat was enough to keep him going even as the cold taxed his energy reserves, and he kept his eyes on the approaching shore. Not far now...

* * *

Dean paced on the dock, now wearing his pants and shirt, a thundercloud over his head. He had no idea if Lance was doing as he said or, if he tried, whether he was successful. During the few moments his cell had feeble service, Dean couldn't get hold of Sam. He tried flashing the headlamp across the water, but the horizon remained black. Maybe Sam wasn't looking? Maybe Sam was at the bottom of the lake, food for the fishes.

Dean could wait no more. He stood over Kara Walter's remains with the matches.

"Sorry, Lance."

With a scraping hiss, he lit the matches and dropped them. Fire roared to life, licking the bones hungrily. He watched them burn, watched the locket melt. Then and only then did a wave of energy pass through him, and he recoiled in shock as a light, rapid ripple radiated out from the dock, through the lake.

"That was new."

* * *

Sam frowned.

"The hell?"

It had felt like a wave of sound had gone through him, and yet he heard nothing. And...was the water warmer?

He tried not to lose focus on the approaching shore, but the water was definitely warm now, and getting warmer.

He submerged and looked down, trying to peer through the dancing rays of moonlight to the darkness below. He squinted, then frowned. He'd seen videos of underwater volcanoes before, but this was a freak lake, not the depths of the sea. That writhing vein of glowing red and yellow was not a split fissure – it was the rusalka, and she was burning.

 _Yeah, Dean!_

Sam's elation was short lived. The water was getting so warm it stung his frozen body. He abandoned calm and steady, swimming as fast as he could towards shore. He could hear her screaming, and as she screamed the water temperature rose. It surpassed a hot tub. It reached the cleansing, muscle knot-reducing heat of a shower after a long day on a hard case – aka, Sam's limit – and then got hotter. He thought the water might start boiling at any moment, and feared he would not make it—

Sand. His hands clawed through it, and he half lurched, half flopped out of the water with the grace of a newborn giraffe. He got his feet under him and stumbled onto the beach just as a blast of water and steam exploded up from the surface of the lake. Sam ducked beneath his arm, but only a few hot droplets landed on him. He watched cautiously as the water slowly stilled, tendrils of steam waving over the surface. They quickly vanished, leaving no trace that anything out of the ordinary had happened there.

"Whoa."

* * *

Dean had only thought about saving his baby brother's life. He did not think of the consequences that would follow. As usual.

He knew the rusalka was done for, and was packing up his gear from where it was scattered all over the dock. He had just stuffed the salt canister into the duffle bag when he saw his breath plume again. He sighed through his nose, then straightened, turning as he pulled out and aimed his shotgun. It would have been slick and cool had Lance not been ready, knocking the gun flying from Dean's hand before he could shoot. Somehow it didn't end up in the water, but it was still to far away to fetch.

"You know, for a newly deceased you're pretty good at that already."

The only response he got was a horse-kick to the guts, and he doubled over, grunting. He couldn't even straighten before another blow sent him sprawling onto the deck.

"You killed her!" Lance roared. " _You killed her!_ "

"Technically, she was already dead—" Dean was silenced as an invisible fist cracked against his face, knocking his head to the side. Stunned, he put a hand to his jaw, pushing it against where it had been hit. "Ugh."

"I loved her! She was mine!" Lance tried to strike him again, but he had exhausted himself, and by the flickering of his form, it was all he could do to stay present. "Mine, not...not Darren's. _I_ loved her."

"No one's saying you didn't," said Dean cautiously. He eased further away on his back, just in case. Where was that knife? "Were...you rivals for her affection?"

If ghosts could cry, Lance nearly was. "She was everything t' me. I tried to keep her secret, because Darren always got what he wanted. We were twins, but he always had the best grades, the smarter clothes, the straighter smile." His rage was what kept him visible, and the more he spoke, the more solid he became. "I found Kara. She was...troubled. I wanted to fix her. T' care for her. And for a while, I thought I'd succeeded." He shook his head. "But then she...she drowned herself. Right here. I saw her vanish into the water, but I was too far away. I knew she was gone before I even stepped foot on the dock, but I swam for her anyway. I never found her. And I never swam again."

Those words jogged a memory in Dean's memory. But before he could jog it further, Lance's cold eyes flicked up to him.

"Now she's gone again. For good. I am alone." Lance pointed at him, and Dean felt icy tendrils uncoil in his chest, wrapping around his lungs. He gasped.

"Have y' ever had your heart ripped out, boy? Shall I show you what it feels like?"

The tendrils constricted. Dean couldn't draw breath. His heart beat faster and faster, struggling against the fist that had closed around it, a bird in too small a cage. Every effort to draw in breath was like trying to inflate already full lungs. Through blurred vision he saw Lance's hand curl, and with it bloomed a searing pain in his chest. He couldn't scream. He tried to speak, but all that came out were hollow gasps, and he writhed helplessly, fighting for air, fighting for life—

 _Bang!_ Lance vanished with an angry howl, and with him went his cold grip on Dean's vitals.

His chest filled in a ragged rush, and he coughed until his face was red. Rolling onto his front, he stood, expecting Sam to be standing there even though he knew his brother was clear across the lake.

"...Evening, Darren."

The old man barely looked strong enough to hold the shotgun, let alone aim it. But there were perks that came along with spray-shot.

" _Baaah_ , I just knew you two were up to somethin'. And it warn't no university assignment." He let Dean pick himself up. The Winchester was still gasping, and waved a hand towards the shotgun.

"How did you know about that?"

Darren released a whistling breath. "After I found Lance speakin' to the lake, I decided there might be something behind this ghost thing he claimed. So I looked up everythin' I could."

"Why didn't you tell us before?"

"'Cause." Darren set the gun down and shuffled back down the dock, kneeling on wobbly knees to pick something up. When he came back, Dean was able to see what it was.

"Lance's swim trophy. Y'saw it on the mantelpiece earlier. Rachel – his granddaughter – left it with me this afternoon. Said she found it in his locker the day he died, but couldn't bear keeping it at home anymore."

Dean nodded. It made sense. When Lance died, he attached himself to the trophy, and then Rachel took it to their home. But the house was too far away from the lake for him to keep Kara company, until the trophy was brought to Darren's.

"You know what must be done, then?" he asked. Darren looked sullen.

"Yeah... I don't suppose...there's another way?"

Dean shook his head. "There is nothing left here that could appease him, to make him let go. He will get angrier and angrier, and eventually, he will kill. His ties to this world must be severed."

He stopped, expecting the usual questions: Will it hurt? What happens to them? Where do they go? But to his surprise, Darren tossed the trophy onto the charred remains of the rusalka.

"Do it. Be done with this."

Moments later, fresh salt and kerosene doused the remains, this time with the swim trophy. Darren only watched the lit matches fall before turning and shambling back towards his house.

Dean gazed after him, and couldn't help but pity the old coot.

"Darren..." He paused. What could he say? But if Darren heard him, he chose not to acknowledge him, shuffling on until he vanished into the gloom.

* * *

Sam remained sitting on his spot in the gritty, rocky sand as the Impala parked on the road atop the bank behind him. He heard the familiar creaking of the driver side door—only slightly different from the passenger side—then footsteps slip and slide down the bank, which carried on until they were beside Sam.

Dean plunked himself down beside him, one leg sticking out before him, the other bent and his arm resting on his knee. Sam didn't ask him how his evening went, simply enjoying the tranquility of the spiritless lake beneath the moon. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, and the endless hum of a distant highway brought forth a feeling of nostalgia. Sam released a contented sigh.

"...Didn't there used to be a boathouse here?" said Dean.

Sam smiled.

 _ **Spη**_


End file.
